Drowning
by LttleDvl
Summary: Sometimes, when things become too much for him to handle, Michael Garibaldi turns to a bottle to help make it through.


_A/N: Originally written for the livejournal challenge community, 5trueloves._

Fandom: Babylon 5  
Title: Drowning  
Author/Artist: LttleDvl  
Theme: #25 - Destruction  
Pairing/Characters: Michael Garibaldi/Stephen Franklin  
Rating: M  
Disclaimer/claimer: Nope, I don't own a bit of it; I just like to play around with the characters.  
Notes/Summary: Some people need a crutch to get by...

Word count: 692

'_Damn him anyway!' _Michael flung the mostly empty bottle across the room; it shattered upon impact when it hit the wall. The act of throwing caused him to stumble and lose his balance; landing ungraciously on his ass in the middle of the floor in his quarters.

Stephen had just stormed out after trying to talk some sense into his best friend. Most of the conversation had been fruitless, however, since Michael was too drunk to focus on much of anything, but after a while, his burning anger had managed to sober up his alcohol-fogged mind. "Son of a bitch," he mumbled as he stopped trying to regain his feet.

It was useless, Stephen was right; he was so far gone that it was a wonder he was even conscious at this moment. All the stress of the past year had finally caught up with him and just as he had done in the past, he turned to the only source of coping he could think of; the bottom of a bottle. It had started out slowly, only taking a sip now and then when things became too unbearable. But as time wore on, he required more and more of the stuff to keep him going.

Stephen had begun to realize what was going on after having just overcome his own addiction to stims not so very long ago. Life on Babylon 5 was never easy, and it had gotten a hell of a lot harder once they'd broken off ties with Earth, even as war loomed on the horizon. He couldn't keep up with the demands everyone was putting on him; Sheridan wanting him to keep an eye out for all manner of station problems as he focused his attention on gathering forces for the upcoming Shadow War. Ivanova was almost as bad, too busy running the Voice of the Resistance and filling in for the Captain whenever Delenn jerked his leash.

It's not that he didn't feel that all this was necessary, quite the opposite in fact, but he was growing so weary of being everyone's gopher all the time without hardly a rest or even a thanks. Stephen's suspicions had pretty much been confirmed when he missed an important meeting and the doctor had sought him out, finding him busily drowning himself.

Stephen was furious. He'd practically ripped Michael a new one right then and there, but Garibaldi was so drunk that he hadn't cared. He was just now beginning to realize that he'd said some horrible things to his friend; things that he now regretted. Despite everything being turned upside-down on the station, Stephen was the only one who still came by just to hang out and talk. Not about war, not about politics, not about the next strategy. He'd make Mike laugh at some new joke he'd picked up from one of the aliens or the latest unbelievable injury that had come through the infirmary. Next to himself, the doctor probably got the most weirdoes and oddball freaks in the station to cross his path. Sometimes the medical profession was not all that different from the security one.

Michael sighed and leaned back against the sofa, all pretenses that he was less than drunk vanished. He had tried to argue that he wasn't, but Stephen had proven otherwise. That's when _he_ lost it. He had accused his friend of not knowing what it was like; how could he possibly understand what he went through. But in his anger and drunken stupor, he had forgotten that Stephen knew exactly what it was like. That's what had forced him to drugs. And now he'd just shoved off his last salvation at redemption by kicking the doctor out.

"Screw it!" he muttered. He managed to clamber to his knees and crawl his way to the kitchen area, avoiding the shards of broken glass to reach the cabinet. He fumbled about until his hand closed around a familiar shape, drawing it out. "Who cares anymore? I've got no friends left, nothing to lose, so hell with it all." He took one last glance at the bottle before pulling the cork out.


End file.
